


Upgrade

by EzraTheBlue



Series: Upgrades [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Free Will, M/M, Meet-Cute, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraTheBlue/pseuds/EzraTheBlue
Summary: After many years of service running on basic functionality and a few years of disuse, Ignis gets some new data.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Series: Upgrades [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909282
Comments: 24
Kudos: 106





	Upgrade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SongOfMarbule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongOfMarbule/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to [Callie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongOfMarbule)!! Have you read her fics? If you like Promnis you definitely need to read her fics. Also, she's just awesome and deserves the best birthdays. 
> 
> If my memory isn't malfunctioning, Callie has a soft spot for robots, so I decided to whip up a little something for her with my take on Promnis and androids. 
> 
> Special thanks to [Scarlett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettArbuckle) for reading this for me! I touched it last and all remaining mistakes are mine.

**Upgrade**

"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?"

He didn't have a response for that in his library. He self-assessed for all possibilities, but found his visual input was turned off. His movement functions were limited, as well - disabled by the upload subroutine, in order to prevent the wireless signal being picked up by the interface plugged into his wrist from being disrupted. He could not move. He could not give a vocal response because he could not select an appropriate response. With no output available, he could not react and thus did not. He awaited the User's next input.

"Oh, sorry about that." 

He recognized "sorry" as an apology for some error made, but the error was either in the programming or the interface. Users often struggled with the interface, but while they were also in charge of creating the interface, the interface was the problem. It would not do to tell the User how he was meant to be used.

He became aware of a data upload, and the User muttering, "just try this - Oh, you're missing that library? Hang on, quick upload here - jeez, you were an, uh, efficient model, huh? What was your last assignment? Can you recall?”

He assessed his memory banks - stark, for how many years since his initial boot date - and dutifully reported based on information located: “Throne room. Protocol. I took the role of King’s Chamberlain.” His memory banks helpfully brought up a few routines, holding the King’s cloak, walking at his side, quietly reiterating the stratagem for whatever encounter had been discussed in council meetings he had been present for. He checked the data banks, but found his internal clock had not been synced in a significant amount of time. “User interface requested.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

This User was very different from his previous Users. He did not especially mind. Then again, he had never attempted to process his opinion of a User before. “Date and time requested.”

“Oh, Six.” There was a scrambling of fingers on the keyboard - the sound wasn’t quite right, the noise somehow too hollow - and the data populated. “There ya go, I just did a sync with the Lucian Nuclear clock.”

Marze 31, 756 M.E. It had been a few years, hadn’t it?

“Thank you.”

That was new. 

“Oh!” The User chirped cheerfully. “Seems like you’re accessing some of those new libraries! Great!”

He self-assessed, and discovered a wide range of new commands, responses, and input/output responses had been uploaded. His old protocol data and limited input/output library was dwarfed by the new, and the upload was still going. Still, as his functions gradually restored, he tried to get his bearings. He was seated on a mesh-backed chair to let his core disperse excess heat. He could tell it was mesh without seeing it. Someone had upgraded his pressure-sense module.

Just then, his visual input kicked in, the room lighting up and data populating. He determined that he was in the repair office in the Citadel’s West Wing, shelves cluttered with stored microfiche data and hard copy repair manuals for every model of android employed by the Royal Family. The room was familiar, though a few things had been moved and the computers were sleek-looking models with which he was unfamiliar, and he did not recall the tech sitting in the rolling chair.

He also never recalled the Royal Family employing androids to repair other androids. 

He did not recognize the model, but the android typing in the computer connected to his wrist interface was an advanced, life-like model, designed to look like a young man, with blond hair flipped and teased in a modern style. His skin, FR#48-Peach, if he recalled the catalog correctly, looked smooth, and even the imperfections looked more like scars on humans than wear and tear. Someone had gone through the trouble of detailing his skin with cocoa-colored freckles. The only way he could tell the android was an android was the visible joints in his elbows and knuckles. The shoulder and leg joints were hidden under his clothes, things a human male in his twenties might wear, based on his databanks. He was likely a companion model, except companion models were good for light conversation, physical contact needs and rudimentary tasks. They didn’t do maintenance. Only human Users did maintenance.

Despite his doubts, the android in the chair hit a few more keys, and he felt another library open. The android looked over to him and - ah. His eyes were unique. Someone had handpainted the glass irises that special shade of blue, because that wasn’t in any of the catalogues he could recall. 

“You’re looking at me!” The android grinned, big and wide. That confirmed it. Altered model. No standard model smiled like that. “Hi!”

“Good afternoon.” That seemed like the correct output, though his voice generator still felt rusty from disuse. “Identify yourself.”

The other android’s face went completely neutral. “Zero-five-nine-five-three-two-three-four - oh, _man_.” He shook his head, voice returning to sounding nearly human at the last two words. “Sorry about that, old subroutine! They call me Prompto around here!” He put a grin back on. “My model is PR-0-1000-T-0. I’m a personal companion to His Highness, Prince Noctis.” He rolled over towards him. “I’m working on the Citadel android restoration project as a favor to him. Sort of a pet project of His Highness. Prince Noctis wanted all the androids to get a suite of upgrades, and I was the first!” He watched as Prompto took up a greasecloth, dipped it in a basin of what looked like mineral oil set beside his bare legs, and dabbed at his facial planes. He was vaguely aware of the newly repaired silicon being smoothed down. 

“Since I’m kind of the experimental model,” Prompto went on, “and he, like, programmed me for it? He’s asked me to oversee restoring a bunch of the older models.” He chuckled a little, in a way he calculated was endearing, as he cleared away some damage around his visual input, under his eye interface. His touch was very delicate, careful. He’d never experienced anything quite like that before, and he searched his memory banks for reference points. None came. In fact, quite a bit was missing, data he was certain should have been there. “Seems like you took some damage to your silicon casing…”

“I beg your pardon.” He cleared his throat, and Prompto looked at him. “Do you recall the circumstances that led to me being taken out of service?” He hadn’t found that in his memory banks either. 

Prompto licked his lips, then bit the lower one - a very human gesture, _who had taken the time to program all that?_ \- before glancing shyly up at him again. Gestures and expressions had been recorded in his protocol advisement library, but rarely did he see them imitated in other androids. “Um.” Prompto cocked his head, then sat back in his chair, studying him with those curious eyes. “Well, I wasn't here, so I can't _recall,_ but - uh - funny story. Um, seems that during the civil war that was getting kinda nasty about fifteen years ago, there was a bit of an attack on the Citadel? And. Um. The King at the time turned all the androids off and used them as human-looking decoys.”

Oh. He looked down at his limbs, and noticed that much of the silicon casing his legs and torso was new. “I see. Rather despicable, were we humans, but I suppose to a cunning King, the loss of a few androids was a better outcome than the possible loss of human life.”

“Boy, a calculating one, aren’t you? Man, Noct is gonna love you!” Prompto cackled a little as he spun in his chair, back to the screen. “Well, he will once you’ve gotten all the installs done. Noct really wanted to make certain you got taken good care of!”

Noct. He recalled that name, and a corrupted memory emerged from his twisting archives:

_A small boy with tiny hands, wrapped around his jointed fingers in a clumsy shake. A young man with a beard standing behind the boy, saying, “My son, Noctis.”_

_The boy’s reply, cheerful, “It’s nice to meet you! You can call me Noct, okay?”_

_Not a recognizable input, but he could process it enough to respond: “It is nice to meet you, Noct.”_

_The crotchety old King nearby, and the last thing he’d heard him say: “That contrarian model is no better than an optimistic child with programming like that. You may as well make it a nanny.”_

“Ah. I was - did I know the Prince?”

“You sure did.” Prompto typed a little more, then glanced up. “You were assigned and given a subroutine as his caretaker for about two years, fifteen years ago. He remembered you, Ignis.”

“Ignis,” he repeated, and recalled the model and designation: “SCI-1-7-N15. Designation, Ignis.”

“Good, you’re remembering!” Prompto grinned again, then rolled the chair back over, spinning it around to sit backwards in it with his legs straddling the back support, hair falling over his eye as he tilted his head. Ignis was becoming palpably aware of the data pouring in. “You were actually pretty messed up. A lot of the memory files were degraded. Your base programming was mostly intact, but I had to rebuild a lot! But that’s okay! It’s been fun!”

“Reassembling me has been…” Ignis pursed his lips, a common human expression of doubt. “Fun, you say?”

“Yeah - also, by the way? Love the vocals.” Prompto swung his legs, still beaming. “You’re gonna be great.” 

“Going to be?” Ignis repeated. He was enjoying the open vocal library, but all of his programming felt more _open_ , somehow. He realized that Prompto, or Prince Noctis _(could he still call him Noct?)_ , or whoever was directing this project, had failed to give him a new chief designation, a primary function, an automated routine to follow. “What does His Highness have in mind for this old model?”

“Oh, hey, self-deprecation! That’s good!” Prompto laughed. “I mean, not good if you overdo it, y’know? But Noct could use the humor subroutines in his life.” Ignis found himself naturally frowning with confusion, and Prompto went on, “Well, as for, like, purpose? I don’t think Noct has decided, for sure. He said he wanted to see how your personality chip meshed with the modern protocol, but he’s pretty sure he might try to put you in sort of an upgraded version of your old position.” Prompto finally swung out of the chair. “So, King’s Hand. Chamberlain. If you like, we can upgrade your search function, make your job a little easier! But that’s if you find yourself inclined.”

Ignis leaned forward, deliberately curving his back. “Inclined, you say?”

That got another laugh and a few slaps to the chair out of Prompto. “Yeah! Yeah, not exactly, but you’re definitely nailing the humor thing.” Prompto crossed the room and reached into a drawer, then started to sort through some articles of clothing. Ignis could already spot that it was a particularly designed polyester meant to tolerate the heat generated by android cores. “No, see, Noctis’ friend Luna - you’ll meet her eventually, she’s nice - she’s the one who restored me in the first place! - she kinda figured out that most androids powered by the Crystal had some sort of personality already there, and with a few tweaks to the programming, they started to come out. I was kind of the experimental model.” Prompto wasn’t looking at Ignis, but he could see that his jaw was tight. “She was sort of able to reverse-engineer a Magitek android that was being powered by… I guess you could call it _the opposite of the Crystal?_ Yeah. And found that with a little tweaking, the EOS cores had a naturally imprinted personality. Noctis spent a lot of his life with androids, and thinking they could all be a little more human - he liked that.” Prompto paused as he looked down into the drawer. “He said he remembered you being kind to him. Gentle, but firm. He might have imagined it, but he remembered you taking good care of him, when you were around, so he wanted to know what you were really like, then give you whatever you like.” Prompto returned, then spread out a few pairs of slacks and a few shirts. “Here, you can pick!”

Ignis couldn’t find a subroutine which would enable him to make a selection, even in his wide new library of interactions and behavior protocols. It felt like so little, and yet so much: he had been given enough to talk almost as naturally as any human in his memory banks, yet could not select the most appropriate option of those presented. They were all well-made, quality items, just in different styles that did not add or subtract from their suitability. He vaguely recalled the old adage of a donkey, presented with two equal piles of straw, being unable to select which to graze off of, and soon enough starving to death. However, he found he had what he could only call a “randomize” feature, and with it he selected a set of black slacks and a purple shirt. Prompto grinned.

“Good choices!”

“Objectively, none of the options you offered were bad choices,” Ignis observed, practical as could be. “They were all of relative equal value. The differences were aesthetic only.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving.” Prompto was already unbuttoning the shirt, and he carefully slid it around Ignis’ arms, working the cuff around the interface still plugged into his wrist with a soft touch. “Can you figure out why you selected those over the others?”

“There’s no logical reason. I suppose I simply favored them.” He touched his thumb to the cuff of the shirt as Prompto finished sliding the slacks up his legs. It was purple. The noblest shroud, it had once been said, though the modern Royal family favored the black of Etro, if his memory banks were giving him accurate output.

“Favor.” There was amusement in Prompto’s voice, and his eyes were crinkled up as he finished dressing Ignis. “That’s kind of what we’re looking for. You should have the power to prefer things now.” He lifted his face and held Ignis’ gaze, the black lens of his pupils seeming to swallow him, as deep as a statement like that could be. “Noctis wanted me to give you as much free will as possible. It’ll take some learning, but he thinks it’ll make you better at doing… well, whatever you want to do!” 

The room suddenly seemed too big. Ignis managed to tip his head back on his limited range of motion, sealing his mouth shut as he tried to process that, but he had nothing with which to process it. There were so many subroutines running at once that Ignis’ central CPU couldn’t pick any of them apart. Functioning had been simple, from what he could recall of his previous tasks. He had task lists, automated routines. There was no question over whether or not he liked something, of preference, of judgment. He simply did what was assigned to him, and that was enough. Now, there was not enough to run on, too much to determine the correct subroutine, _was there even a correct anymore?_

“Hey.” There was a tug on his wrists, and Ignis looked to see Prompto had taken hold of both of his hands. “Don’t try to focus too hard on any of it, okay? It’s a lot to absorb, and it’s going to take some doing to get used to your new functions.” Somehow, the touch was grounding, and it gave Ignis something to focus on. Prompto put a self-deprecating smile on. “It took me a little while, too. I had a lot to learn. But I promise, I’ll be right with you all the way.” He squeezed Ignis’ palms, then carefully unplugged the interface. Ignis felt his joints spark back to life as power returned to his extremities, but Prompto didn’t let go of his hands. Ignis, somehow instinctively, held his hands in return. Prompto’s eyebrows raised - surprised - then he put a warm smile back on. “Ready to start learning about the new world?”

Ignis processed a moment longer. It was still too much, but if Prompto could do it, so could he. “Very well then. I trust that you’ll help me shake the rust off.”

Prompto laughed again, and Ignis realized he found his vocal modulator favorable. He found quite a lot about Prompto favorable, as well. But there were too many processes behind that opinion, or indeed the existence of an opinion, for Ignis to do anything about it right now.

So for now, he wouldn’t strain to focus on it. He would simply let it be.

Prompto helped him to his feet, and, knowing how to respond when being led, Ignis took his first few steps into free will.

**Author's Note:**

> The philosophical dilemma Ignis described is Buridan's Ass, a relatively famous illustration of paradox in the conception of free will. Another version involves a donkey who is equally hungry and thirsty being placed between a bale of hay and a pail of water.
> 
> Happy birthday, dude, and wishing you many, many more!


End file.
